You Fascinate Me
by HidingFromTheSpotlight
Summary: John's life changes drastically when Sherlock Holmes slides into the seat across from him and announces that he is stalking him, John. He finds John fascinating and assures him in no uncertain terms that he, Sherlock, is going to make him his. And John feels excited. The danger that comes with this man floods through him, and he loves it, even if he won't want to admit it out loud.
1. You Fascinate Me

**So, this is an idea I had after reading OperaGoose's story 'Shouldn't Be My Idea of Fun, But It Is'. But I will make sure I finish Just One Touch BEFORE I go any further with this. I suppose I'm just putting it out there to see what everyone thinks. Please review and tell me what you think. Thank you :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (or its characters).**

**You Fascinate Me.**

John sank into the booth with a sigh and picked up a menu, though he quickly lowered it to stare at the young man who had slid into the seat across from him. "Er, hi."

"Hello." The man replied, propping himself up with one arm while his hand cradled his head, staring back at John as his eyes roved shamelessly.

"Is there, um, something you… came over for?" John asked, glancing around the practically empty café before his eyes centred back on this strange youth.

"Yes." The man answered.

John waited for a further reply, but the man was silent. "And what was it you came over for?" He prompted.

"You."

"What?" John gawked.

"I came over here for you." The man said in slight irritation at the need to clarify.

"Can I ask why?"

"You fascinate me."

"I… what?" John was lost. He didn't even know who this man was! How could he possibly fascinate him?

"_You_ fascinate _me_." He repeated slowly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Who are you? And why would I fascinate you? I'm quite certain I've never met you, nor do I know you, at all." John huffed, getting annoyed.

"_I_ am Sherlock Holmes. And _you_ fascinate me because I can't quite figure you out. You're not as easy to read as the others, yet you seem so open and good-natured. It's quite perplexing." The man, Sherlock, stated. "I mean, there are obvious things, but they're not what I normally see in others. You're very unusual, John, and you're right. You have never met me, you do not know me, but I know you."

"What? How? How do you know my name?"

"I researched you. I was curious about you and I wanted to know more, so I did a bit of digging."

"You stalked me." John surmised.

"I suppose you could call it that."

"Why? Why stalk me?" John demanded in a whisper. "I'm not special and I'm not interesting."

"I beg to differ. I mean, look at you now. Most people wouldn't react the way you have to the news that they were being stalked. Yet here you are, calm as a meditating monk. For all you know, I could be an axe-wielding psychopath. I could be dangerous." Sherlock all but purred.

"I'm not afraid of you. You don't scare me." John said sternly.

"No, I most certainly do not scare you. I excite you. One mention of the word _dangerous_ and your pupils dilated, your pulse quickened. You find the idea of me attacking you, of me attempting to make you all mine, almost… attractive."

John scowled. "I do not find you attractive." Well, not in _that_ way, at the very least. "I mean, I'm _not _attracted to the fact that you might be dangerous. I'm not interested."

"Ah, but your body belies your words, John. As I said before, your pulse quickened and your pupils dilated, but your lips also parted, you straightened your cuffs, quite showily, I might add, and your eyes dropped as low as the table would allow." Sherlock smiled, victorious.

"I- I'm not interested. Go away!" John hissed.

"No."

"I'll call the police!" John threatened.

"No." Sherlock repeated.

John growled. "You can't tell me I'm not going to call the police."

"Yes I can." Sherlock replied. "Because you're not going to call them, you don't want to. You're bored, John. You're bored with ordinary life, just like me. And I'm offering you excitement, the excitement you crave so desperately."

John's jaw tightened.

"Hello there, my name's Kim. I'll be your waitress today. What can I get you?" The bouncy blonde asked.

"I-"

"He'll have a flat white, no sugar, and a scone with strawberry jam." Sherlock said. "I'll have a milkshake. Chocolate."

"But it's still breakf-"

"A milkshake. Chocolate." Sherlock said again, holding up a fifty-pound note.

"Of- of course… I'll see what I can do." The girl said, taking the note and slipping it into her apron. "It should be ready in a moment." With a smile at John, the girl headed back towards the kitchen.

"How did you know what I was going to order?" John asked.

"I've been observing your daily routines for a while now. And I know that at ten am, you have a flat white and scone with strawberry jam while you wait for your class." Sherlock told him, sounding just a touch bored. "Tell me, why exactly have you gone back to University?"

"Wait, how long have you been stalking me, exactly?"

"A month and a week, tomorrow." Sherlock answered. "Now, back to your attending University-"

"Hold on, hold on. A _month_?" John asked in surprise.

"And a week. Tomorrow."

"So it's you then." John guessed, glaring at Sherlock. "You're the reason I haven't been able to get a date for so long."

Sherlock smiled cheekily. "Why, of course. I do intend on keeping you to myself, John. I won't let anyone else have you, especially not those harlots you attempted to associate with."

"Perhaps you should have _asked_ me before you did that." John said through gritted teeth.

"I think you're missing the point about this whole stalking thing."

John sat, fuming silently. _What is with this guy? Is he insane? Scratch that; he's a stalker, of course he's insane._

"Now, answer my question: why have you gone back to university? You've already completed your Medical degree, what else could possibly interest you?"

"I- I needed something to do."

Sherlock nodded. "So you're not really interested in English Literature?"

"I am, but…"

"You want something that requires thought, to try and occupy your mind while you sort out where you're going to go and what you're going to do?"

"Yeah." _Why am I discussing my future with a man I've only just met who confessed, well, announced he was stalking me?_

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do?"

"Well… I was thinking about joining the army. Be an army doctor." John said uncertainly.

"Interesting." Sherlock breathed. "Why?"

"Um, well, my- my mother-"

"Ah, of course. Your mother was a doctor, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, and my dad was a-"

"A major? Or was he a colonel?"

"A major."

Sherlock nodded, leaning forward. "They're dead, aren't they? That's why you're trying to emulate the both of them. Make them proud, though I don't see why. Unless you're religious and believe in heaven or whatever."

"I take it you're _not_ religious, then."

"And believe in some man who can see you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake? Hardly."

"That's Santa Claus."

"Who?"

"You don't know who Santa Claus is?" John asked in disbelief.

"I may have at one point or another, but I've probably deleted it."

"Deleted it? Why?"

"My head is like a hard drive, John. It only makes sense to put things in there that are useful."

"And what sort of things would you classify as useful?"

"Anything that can help me with a case."

"A case?"

"I sometimes do consultant work."

"For?"

"The police. Or I would, if they weren't so horribly thickheaded and insistent upon the whole 'no-civilians-allowed-in-the-crime-scenes'. But other than that, I do private work."

"So, you're a private detective?"

"Consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world, which makes sense, seeing as I invented the job." Sherlock grinned quite suddenly.

"Something funny?"

"Mmm, yes. I find it quite interesting that you've managed to turn this whole conversation back on me."

John shrugged. "I'm a private person. I prefer not to talk too much about myself."

"Most people would simply say that aloud. You, however, answered my inquiries before deflecting the questions by asking some of your own." Sherlock smiled.

"Here we are. One flat white with a scone and one milkshake." Kim smiled, placing their orders in front of them.

"Thank you." John smiled at her.

"You're welcome." Kim grinned, fluttering her eyelashes. "Anything else?"

"He's not interested." Sherlock said.

"S-sorry?" Kim stammered.

"I said, 'he's not interested'. I mean, why would he be? You're just a washed up actress who's already cheating on her current boyfriend."

"What? How- I'm not- I-I-"

"Go away." Sherlock told her. "If I wanted to listen to bumbling idiots, I'd watch the news."

Kim's mouth fell open, as did John's. After a pause, Kim scowled at Sherlock, then at John, before turning on her heel and marching back towards the kitchen.

John raised an eyebrow. "Was that really necessary?"

"Like I said, I'm going to make you all mine."

"Did you ever consider the fact I'm not gay?"

"It would only be a fact if it were true." Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his milkshake.

John's eyes narrowed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm only stating what I observe."

"Is that what you did to the waitress. Make assumptions about her and then throw them in her face."

"I don't make assumptions!" Sherlock snapped. "I make observations. I look, I listen, I smell, I taste, I feel and I think. I look at the details, even minute ones, and put them all together. It's a science, John. The science of deduction."

"Oh really? Then go on, tell me what you can _deduct_ about me." John said, leaning back with his arms crossed, glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed. "I've already told you, when I look at you, things don't seem to make sense. You're a bit of a mystery to me, John. That's why I researched you, studied you."

"Give it a go. Let's see what you can come up with." John challenged.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. "Fine." He sat back, both arms on the table, his eyes resuming their scanning of his upper body. "You used a different razor this morning. A… Gillette Mach3 Turbo. You've somehow managed to get a date, probably with one of your classmates. You must consider her a little… loose, even though you don't normally go for her type, so you must be rather desperate. Actually, you are desperate, for sexual contact, at the very least. You've had another fight with your brother, probably because he's rushed into a relationship without telling his new girlfriend about his drinking problem." He paused, looking under the table.

John blushed and crossed his legs. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock's head reappeared, resting his head on his interlinked hands. "Your cat has passed away from old age and your alarm clock is broken."

"How do I know you didn't find all that out from, you know, stalking me?"

"I don't stalk you when you're at home."

"Why not?"

Sherlock smirked. "Contrary to what you may think, I do have a life outside of you."

"Aren't stalkers completely obsessed with their… er…"

"Victims?" Sherlock offered.

"Do you think of me as a victim?"

"I think of you as a curiosity."

"Oh. Well, aren't stalkers obsessed with their victims?"

"Some. But I prefer to… go against the grain, shall we say? Not that I won't stalk you at home. I'm just too busy at the moment."

"Why do you want to stalk me at home? You seem to be able to know everything about me just by looking."

"I have a few theories about you, but I need more evidence to be sure."

"Why don't you just ask me?"

"Boring. I prefer to investigate for myself."

"Is that why you've become a… consulting detective?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you see a lot of blood?"

"Sometimes. It can be quite gory at times. Other times it's so boring and ordinary. It takes a lot of waiting until an interesting killer comes along. I once had to wait three months for one, all the ones in between were obvious. Husband cheated, wife killed him. Or wife cheated, husband killed her. Though every now and then you get the occasional lover thrown into the equation. But most of them were domestic murders. Boring."

"You really don't like being bored, do you?" John enquired, sipping his coffee.

"No, but you don't either. In fact, you hate it. You want action, adventure. You want a thrill. The adrenaline rush that comes with being in danger." Sherlock said. "Are you free this Sunday?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you free this Sunday?"

"So you're asking me out now?"

"Maybe. But I may just have the solution to your boredom. Come with me this Sunday. I'm going to be doing a little spot of burglary. There are a few things I need to confirm before I can be sure I have the right suspect."

"You want me to commit a crime with you?"

"Yes. Will you come?"

"I don't-"

"It could be dangerous."

John paused, frowning at Sherlock. "Is that your version of please?"

Sherlock sat back in his seat. "Well?"

"I'll think about it."

"I'll text you the address."

"You have my number?" John asked in surprise.

Sherlock grinned wickedly. "I'm stalking you, John. Of course I know your number." And with that, he got to his feet and left.

John sat for a long while, sorting through everything and found that, yes, he did want to go housebreaking with Sherlock Holmes, the man who was stalking him, because, dammit, he was so very bored. He started as his phone buzzed.

**NUMBER UNKNOWN: **_22 Northumberland Street. Nine o'clock, tonight. Ditch your sleazy date and come have some fun with me._

And John couldn't help himself, he smiled. _Finally, something exciting_.


	2. Class is Boring

******Just a quick chapter. Thought I'd better add something, came up with this. Hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**Chapter Two:**

John blinked repeatedly, trying not to fall asleep as his professor droned on and on about the majesty of… uh. Shit. What _was_ he talking about? Glancing down at his notes, he was ashamed to see that he hadn't actually taken in _anything_ his professor had said. Instead, he had drawn doodles of Sherlock all over the page.

_Well, that isn't very helpful. Unless Professor Moseby wants an in-depth description of my stalker, I think I may have to ask one of the others for their un-Sherlock-ified notes._

Deciding that there was no way to salvage his notes seeing as it was almost the end of class, John took a moment to peek out the window, only to be greeted by the sight of a telescopic camera lens. He scowled as another photo was snapped before the camera was whisked away and replaced by the grinning face of Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes and turned away from the window, pointedly ignoring his stalker. This worked for about ten seconds before his traitorous curiosity got the better of him and demanded he return his gaze to the man outside the window.

Sherlock waved lazily and John had to restrain himself from waving back. Sherlock tapped his watch, and John frowned, looking down at his hand and realising that class was over. He looked out the window once more, but found that Sherlock had disappeared. Sighing, he got to his feet and started packing up, only to have his books whizzed out of his hands.

"Hey, give-" John began crossly, but stopped abruptly when he realised it was just Sherlock. "Oh, hi."

"Yes, hello." Sherlock replied, flicking through John's textbook on English literature. "Why does this book reference Harry Potter?"

"Because it's English and it's literature." John answered.

"Hmm."

"Don't you like Harry Potter?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not interested in reading things that have no relevance to my cases."

"What if it became relevant to one of your cases?"

"Then I will read it and pass judgement on it."

"So, about tonight."

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, I thought we were going…" John trailed off, looking around cautiously before turning his attention back to Sherlock, "housebreaking on _Sunday_."

"We are."

"So what are we doing tonight?"

"Hmm, not sure. I'd just prefer you be with me and not that harlot you made a date with."

"Excuse me?" A high-pitched female voice exclaimed. "Who are you calling a harlot?"

John gulped. "Sharon! Hi, um, I- I was just going to-"

"Who is this?" Sharon demanded, jerking a thumb at Sherlock.

"This is Sherlock, my… acquaintance."

"Really. Why is he calling me a harlot?"

"Because you are one." Sherlock interjected.

Sharon's mouth fell open and she turned to John. "Are you going to let him talk to me like that?"

"Er, Sherlock, I-"

"He agrees with me. Can't you tell? Just look at his socks!" Sherlock replied condescendingly.

"Does he now? Well, Johnny boy, you can just go fuck yourself!" Sharon yelled, turning and storming away.

John sighed. "Was that strictly necessary?"

"Yes. I had to make sure she didn't have a change of heart and come back." Sherlock pushed John's books into the doctor's arms, choosing instead to rifle through the man's bag.

"Hey, what are you-"

Sherlock snatched up the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and strolled away, forcing John to follow him. "So, John, your regular routine dictates a walk through the park on your way to your apartment. Would you like me to walk you there?"

"What? No, no. I have somewhere else to be."

Sherlock turned a sharp 180 degrees, making John skid to a halt clumsily. "Where?"

"The recruiting office. I'm going to be applying for a position in the army."

Sherlock made an annoyed grunt. "Why?"

John frowned. "Because I want to."

"But why _today_? Why not next week? Or next month?"

"I can't afford to just keep going to college, Sherlock. Besides, I've got my medical degree. It's time I… It's time for me to move on."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before giving a curt nod. "When do you have to be there?"

"Ah, two. But I'm going to go see Harry beforehand."

"Do you have to?"

"Well, yeah."

Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. "Fine. I'll walk you there, but I'm not sticking around."

John rolled his eyes. "You don't have to if you find it so dull."

"Nonsense. A walk by your side will give me a chance to observe you up close."

"I thought that was what the telephoto lens was for."

Sherlock grinned. "No, the lens is for documentation. Coincidentally, what were you drawing on your notebook?"

"You probably already know."

"I'd prefer you tell me."

John stopped in his tracks. "What am I doing? Seriously."

"Going for a walk to your brother's house."

"With my _stalker_."

"So?"

"People don't normally go for walks with their stalkers. And if they did, they wouldn't really know about it."

"Would you rather I follow you a few paces behind? Out of sight?"

"No." John replied immediately. "I'd rather keep you in my sight."

"Have you become that enraptured by my features already?"

"Shut up." John scowled.

"That wasn't a no."

"I'm not attracted to you, Sherlock. I'd just rather have you where I can see you."

"Why?"

"Because you're still a stalker who follows me around and takes photos of me when I'm not looking, which means that there is a possibility of you becoming violent and trying to kill me or so on." John recited, continuing forwards.

Sherlock let out a dry chuckle. "Honestly, John, where did you get that titbit of information?"

"Internet."

"I should have guessed." Sherlock tutted. "John, do you know how many of the facts on the internet are wrong?"

"How many?" John sighed.

"All of them. Well, most of them anyway. I do have to account for my own website."

**HFTS: I have no idea what I'm doing.**


	3. Breaking In

**Right, thought I'd better give you one other chapter; sorry it's so short. I'm going to be away for a couple weeks (without internet access -_-, but I should at least get more chapters done. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

Chapter Three:

Sherlock watched as children frolicked through the playground across the street, wondering whether he could find it within himself to hate each and every one of them. But then the image of Doctor John Watson, smiling at the children and voicing his desires to be young again, flashed through his mind and he decided that, just perhaps, the children weren't that bad. Pulling out a phone, he flicked through his photos of the Doctor, trying once again to decide which was his favourite. If he were to be truly honest, his favourite would have to be-

"Have you been sitting here the entire time?" John asked, sitting beside him.

"No." Sherlock lied, turning his phone towards John. "Do you agree that this photo of you is quite impressive?"

"Is that from Harry's birthday party?" John frowned.

Sherlock let out an impatient breath. "Yes. Now, do you agree?"

"Uh… I suppose it's a pretty good photo." John said, looking up and down the empty road.

"When do you leave?" Sherlock asked, tucking away his photo.

"Ah, well, I'll be going for a physical in a few days. There are a few forms I have to fill out. Then there's a training camp thing and then…"

"You'll be gone." Sherlock finished.

"Yeah. In- in three weeks."

"Nervous?"

John grinned. "More excited, I think. They'll probably assign me to the medical team, but I'll still be on active duty and everything."

"So you'll be fighting." Sherlock said. "Might even get killed."

"It's… it's always a possibility. But that won't stop me."

"Why can't you just stay here? Why do you have to go to war?"

"Because… I want to do my part. I'm not going to sit back while others lay down their lives for my freedom and safety. I'm not going to let them die."

"You could stop people from dying by staying here. Work in a hospital and all of that." Sherlock reasoned.

"You know that's not the only reason. Besides, it's my decision and I've made it."

"I dislike your decision. I want you to remain here."

"Why? So you can stalk me?" John snapped.

"I want you to be with me!"

"Well I don't! I barely know you but you've just walked into my life and taken over like you own it! I'm sick of it and I've only known you for a day!" John shouted jumping to his feet and storming away.

"John!" Sherlock called, but quickly decided to leave him be. He had found that when people were mad at him, following them around only made them madder. Of course, he had never really cared about how other people felt, but John was different. John was… John. He was so ordinary, but at the same time, he was so very fascinating. It was infuriating. And so very, very attractive. For a moment, he debated over what he should do to kill time. And then a thought occurred. There was one thing he hadn't done yet, which he had been meaning to do for some time, and seeing as John was going to his brother's (obvious by the direction and John's posture), he would have time to do it. Grinning, he got to his feet and headed off, cloak swirling about him mysteriously.

John heaved a sigh, leaning against his door. He really shouldn't have gone back to Harry's in such a terrible mood, even if he _had_ promised he'd return with news of his possible army career. Of course, due to John's bad mood and Harry's having downed an entire bottle of scotch, they'd ended up fighting and he'd stormed off while Harry shouted abuse and obscenities and her girlfriend, Jeanette, sobbed and at various moments yelled about 'trust' and 'love' and 'healthy relationships'. He was going to be in big trouble the next time he saw his sister. Which reminded him, how long would it be before his stalker realised Harry was-

"Female!" A familiar voice shouted, sounding annoyed but intrigued. "She's his _sister_! Why didn't he correct me? All this time I've been thinking I was completely right and here is this, _this_, sliver of information _laughing at me_!"

John rounded the corner into his sitting room to find Sherlock standing in front of the fireplace, yelling at a family photo of John, his parents and Harry. John coughed and Sherlock froze. "Hi."

"You're back early." Sherlock replied without turning around.

"Harry and I had a fight." John shrugged.

"Yes, you and your _sister _seem to have a lot of those. How long before you told me?"

"You act like it was some kind of secret. How long have you been in my house?"

"Half an hour."

"Find anything interesting?"

Sherlock turned around, eyes running over John. "You're not angry. At me." He stated.

"No. I realised that… I shouldn't have yelled at you. I mean… I'm sorry, okay? But it is my decision. I am going to war, Sherlock. Even if you don't want me to." John told him softly.

Sherlock looked away, lips already in full pout. "Why?"

"Because that's the way it is."

"Are you still coming with me tonight?"

"Well, it's either that, or sit around my house in my underwear watching crap telly." John grinned.

Sherlock's lips twitched in what could have been a very quick smile. Or an unidentified medical condition manifesting itself in random muscle spasms. John found the latter more comforting, as the idea of Sherlock imagining him in his underwear was slightly terrifying.

"Well then, let's get going." Sherlock said, pushing John towards the front door. "Let's go find something interesting."


	4. Handcuffs, Kinky

**Very, very short chapter I created just to tease you all. I'm seem to have a thing for handcuffing John to the bed... Ahem, anyway... This scene could have gone in such a different direction were I braver. But it didn't, so I'll leave you all to simply imagine instead. I love you all, bye bye!**

**EDIT: Someone pointed out a spelling mistake... How the f#ck do I write insulations instead of insinuations? What is wrong with my brain?!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, Johnlock would be... well it is kinda canon but I would make *more* canon.**

Chapter Four:

John opened his eyes to the early morning light streaming in through his windows. He sleepily sat up, going to rub his eyes. Hearing a suspicious clink and finding one arm restrained, he froze. _Oh shit_.

"Oh good, you're awake." Sherlock said, sitting at the foot of the bed.

"How the fuck did you- Why am I handcuffed to the fucking bed?!" John demanded.

"I needed to keep you still. If you got embarrassed, you might run away." Sherlock answered blandly, pulling out a notepad and flicking through it, John catching sight of a meaningless string of words, some underlined, others circled or blotted out. It was, however, the diagrams and pictures that really caught his attention, taking up entire pages at times. And they all seemed to be of him or about him.

_He's a stalker, remember? It's kind of what they do_. The little voice in his head reminded him pointedly. _Why should it surprise your that he obsesses over the little things?_

"Ahem, and, uh, what are you going to do that might embarrass me?"

Sherlock grinned suddenly, a wicked glint in his eye. "I'm going to ask you some questions."

"Oh." John tugged half-heartedly at his restraint. "Is it really necessary?"

Sherlock ignored the question, probably deeming it irrelevant. After a moment, he found the page he was looking for and sat, legs crossed, with pen poised inches above the paper. "First question: when and where did you have your first sexual experience?"

"Wh- what?!" John gasped.

"You heard me."

John, despite the fact he was a grown man about to go into the military with a long, generally well-known love life, blushed. He _blushed_ like a schoolgirl asked to her first dance.

"I'm sorry, is this a sensitive topic?"

"Yes!"

"Pity. Answer the question."

"What? Don't you give a damn about my- my discomfort?"

"Not at the moment, no. I'm more interested in answers."

"What if I don't answer?"

"Then you shall stay here until you do."

John glowered at Sherlock. "I was about fifteen." He finally admitted, sighing in defeat.

"Where?"

"I was here, in London… on a school trip."

Sherlock nodded, scribbling down the answer. "Girl or boy?"

"Girl! Look, I've told you, I am not g-"

"Yes, yes. You already know what I think about that. Did you have an emotional attachment to this girl? Was she a girlfriend?"

"Uh… we didn't date, exactly. It was more of an on/off thing."

"So there was no emotion to it?"

"Not really. I suppose there was some, er, juvenile lust involved. But nothing, you know, deep."

"Why not?"

"We were teenagers. She was…" John trailed off, shrugging.

"A whore?"

"Are you going to insult all the women in my life?"

"Only if they try to compete with me."

John rolled his eyes. "Who says there's going to be a competition?"

"Oh good, you've accepted my advances. That should make everything else much easier."

"What? No, that's not what I meant! I was-"

"Admit it, John. You are attracted to me."

"If you don't uncuff me, right now, my fist will be attracted to your face!" John shouted, glaring.

"That wasn't a no." Sherlock pointed out, inching out of John's reach.

"I'm not gay, Sherlock!"

"Why are you so touchy about this?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't like it when people say things about me that aren't true."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Something happened to you. Something that's created a dislike of insinuations of homosexuality."

"Nothing happened to me, Sherlock."

"What was it?"

"Leave it alone, Sherlock."

"John, what is it? Why won't you admit you have feelings for me?"

"Because I have no feelings for you! Would you just leave me alone, Sherlock?"

"Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll find someone who will." Sherlock snapped, getting to his feet.

"Wait, aren't you going to let me go?" John asked, still struggling with the restraint.

"The key's in the drawer next to your bed." Sherlock replied, disappearing out the door.

John leant over, fishing the key out of his drawer and unlocking the handcuff. Massaging his wrist, he climbed out of bed and made his way to the window. He scowled at Sherlock's retreating back and headed off to get dressed, thinking of all the things _he'd_ do to Sherlock for revenge.


	5. The Story of John's

_Another chapter for you lovely, lovely, gorgeous, sexy readers. Did I mention you're all lovely? And the fire thing is something my science teacher taught me to do. It supposedly works better to make people think they're going up against an inhuman force or something. Also, everything I touch turns to angst._

WARNINGS: Mentions of homophobia, physical violence, etc._  
_

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock**

Chapter Five:

"Now, Harriet, you're John's sister, correct?" Sherlock asked, peering at the woman seated across from him.

"No, I'm his mother." Harry replied sarcastically. "And don't call me Harriet. It's just Harry." She added, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her eye.

"As you wish. Now, Harry-"

"Who are you, exactly? How do you know John?" Harry asked with furrowed brow.

"I'm a friend, we met at a diner."

"You're a bit young. Do you go to Uni together or something?"

"No. We met at a diner. But that's not important."

"Are you dating him?"

Sherlock sighed. "I am trying to. That is why I need to ask you something. I-"

"You don't need my blessing or anything. If you want to date my brother you can go right ahead. Just don't call him short and don't insult his choice of jumpers and you'll get along fine." Harry said, sitting back in her chair with a sly smile on her face. "Though don't forget to put my name on the guest list for your wedding."

Sherlock cleared his throat. This definitely wasn't going to plan. "I'm not here about anything like that. I wanted to talk about John, about something that happened to him that makes him uncomfortable about his sexuality."

"Excuse me?"

"Whenever I attempt to broach the subject of his sexuality, he becomes angry and unhelpful. I was hoping you might know why."

"Er… I think I might know about that, but I don't think… Well, you're his boyfriend or whatever, I'm sure he won't mind if I tell you. And besides, I'm technically a part of this story too so I can tell it to anyone I like." Harry said, mostly to herself.

"Yes, yes, go on." Sherlock urged impatiently, sitting on the edge of his seat.

"Well, when we were younger, back when we still had a mum and dad and everything, we lived in this small town that wasn't very, um, welcoming to anyone who wasn't white, straight and Christian. My parents didn't share the same values or anything like that, they weren't racist or nothing, and they always said it was fine for _other_ people's children to be gay and whatever… But when I came out, they kinda didn't know what to think. Mum tried to insist it was just a phase and dad didn't talk to me for a month. John didn't really get what their problem was, he was happy for me and everything. It was a while later that the really bad thing happened." Harry explained, pausing for a moment to look at Sherlock quite seriously. "I haven't offered you a drink, have I? Do you want one?"

"No, please just continue with your story." Sherlock replied.

Harry nodded, licking her lips. "Right, right. So, uh, where was I? Oh right, well, one night me and John were walking through town, and it was pretty late mind you, we'd been out playing a bit of football and talking about the cricket grounds they going to put in. Anyway, we were walking home one night and as we rounded a corner, we ran into this group of boys and…"

"_Well, well, well, lookie here, boys. It's the lezzo and her fag of a brother." Desmond grinned._

"_What do you want, Desmond?" John growled._

"_Nothing from you, faggot. But I'd like to show the lezzo what a man can do for her."_

"_Stay the fuck away from my sister."_

"_What are you gonna do, midget? Kick me in the shins?" Desmond taunted, to the delight of his cronies._

"_I'm gonna kick you in the nuts in a minute!" Harry roared._

"_How's about you suck 'em instead?" Brenton called._

"_How about I sucker punch you in the face?" Harry threatened, advancing until she was only a foot away from the ape of a boy. "I'm not afraid of you, you homophobic bastard, alright? No matter how much you taunt me or curse at me, I'm not going anywhere and I'm not changing who I am to suit your microscopic brains. Now leave me the fuck alone!" _

"_C'mon, Harry, let's get out of here before these assholes infect us with their stupidity." John said, turning to walk back the way they had came._

_Harry went to follow suit when a sudden pain at the back of her head made her stumble sidelong into a parked car. "Ow, what the fuck?"_

"_Oi! You coward, how dare you hit my sister when her back's turned!" John shouted, racing to Harry's side._

_Brenton sneered. "Not like it's a crime to hit a lezzo. They're not real people like me."_

"_You're not a person. You're a fucking pile of shit that's taken on an ape-like form and plays pretend at being human. Why don't you fuck off?" John retorted, checking the back of a now seething Harry's head for blood._

"_Oh you're going to pay for that!" Brenton shouted, leaping at the pair of them._

_John swung his fist up to meet the brute's oncoming jaw and was rewarded with a grunt of pain as the boy stumbled back, though the reprieve was short-lived as one of the others came roaring forward. Desmond grabbed his arms and forced them behind his back while two others held his sister down. One after the other, they took it in turns punching him and kicking him. Every now and then he heard his sister let out a cry of pain. The siblings struggled with all their might, biting anything within reach and twisting this way and that in a desperate effort to get free. Soon, John was too tired, too beaten-down to even move and simply lay panting and grunting as more blows were rained over his body. A wicked gleam entered Desmond's eye as he grabbed John by the throat._

"_You boys go help the others with the lezzo, I can handle this little fag on my own." He said, dragging John out of view._

_Harry swore and managed to bite the hand of one of the boys who was attempting to gag her. "Fuck, John, help! Someone please! Help me! It's… it's a FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! HELP I'M GONNA BURN TO DEATH! PLEASE HELP ME! FIRE!" She shrieked, writhing in their grip. _

_Lights flickered on in the houses lining the streets and people came rushing out. The boys dropped her and scarpered. Harry lay slumped as a few men came to her side, though they were slightly confused at the lack of a blazing inferno. Managing to weakly push herself up, she looked about, but couldn't see any sign of her brother. "John! John, where are you?" She cried._

"_What's wrong, girl?" One of the men nearest to her whispered, trying to push her gently back to the ground._

"_My- my brother. He… They took him somewhere. He's hurt too. Please, you have to find him." She said softly._

"_It'll be okay. What's your brother's name? We'll find him for you."_

"_His name's John. John Watson."_

_The man nodded, looking to the others. "There's another kid around here, he's hurt too, I think. Check about for him and call an ambulance."_

Sherlock frowned, digesting this new information. "So, your being beaten is his reason for-"

"No, no, that's only the half of it. See, when Desmond dragged John off… he did something to him. I don't think he, you know, um, _raped_ him but… He did something terrible to John. He had nightmares for- for a long time. And he never went outside after dark, not ever. My mum and dad, they sent him to a therapist to try and help him but it never really went anywhere and after awhile he seemed to just... get better. But he only _seemed_ to. Inside, he was still…"

"Still what?" Sherlock asked, scooting forward until he was practically seated on thin air.

"I don't know, broken, maybe? He just… he was never the same as before. He got suspended twice for punching kids who called him gay when before he'd just laugh it off and tell them to grow up. It's like he was scared of something." Harry said softly, staring at the coffee table between them.

"These boys, the ones who attacked you, what happened to them?"

"They got off." Harry shrugged, sitting back. "They're parents made the 'he's-normally-such-a-good-boy-we-don't-know-what's-happened-please-don't-send-our-baby-to-prison-we-promise-it'll-never-happen-again' sob story play. One of them even talked about how losing his uncle to cancer had left him angry and confused and blah, blah, blah. No one really seemed to care that they could've killed me and John. But hey, you can't win 'em all, can you?"

"That's disgusting." Sherlock said without emotion, though his eyes were flashing dangerously.

"That's life." Harry replied, a hard look in her eyes. "No one really cares about you if you aren't like them. They may say they care about others and all of that crap, but they don't. It's a fact of life."

Sherlock pursed his lips, but let it go. He sat back, staring out of the window. "I want to help him. But he won't let me. I've never… I've never really cared about anyone before and now... I don't even know where to begin. I've never felt so helpless and clueless before, it's maddening. Most people are so easy to read. They live their lives dashing about after love and money and respect… but somehow, John's different."

Harry shrugged. "John's not like other people. I don't know why, that's just the way he is."

"I want him to… love me, I think. I want him to be mine, to be okay." Sherlock closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opened them again, his mask of indifference was once again in place. He got to his feet swiftly, glancing at his phone. "Thank you for your time, Harriet- I mean, Harry. You've been most helpful."

"No problem, kid. Good luck winning the heart of my brother." Harry replied, waving him away. "Just don't forget me in the wedding speeches."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course, Harry. I'll make sure to have it drafted and sent for your approval by Monday."

"You'd better." She murmured, pouring herself a glass of vodka.

**d(-_-)**

John strode out of his lecture theatre in a relatively better mood than when he had entered them. And why shouldn't he be happy? It was his last lesson after all. No more assignments or tests or examinations or having to go over some tortured old romance novel searching for significance in curtain colours. No, now he was going to have a lot more downtime in preparation for his going away. Arrangements would have to be made for his things, and the sale of his flat. Plus, he should probably start going back to the gym. He'd let the whole matter slide for awhile and now he was starting to resemble jelly. He was so relaxed, he nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone started to ring. "Er, hello, John Watson speaking." He said into the receiver.

"Hey bro, it's Harry. I'm just calling to let you know that me and Jeanette are going to be out for the rest of the afternoon, so you don't have to swing by or anything." Harry said.

"Oh, okay then. Are you having a dinner or something?"

"Yeah. Anyway, I thought I might let you know your boyfriend stopped by. He seems… nice. Little weird, but he really seems to care about you. I didn't know you were into young pretty boys."

John had barely heard the last bit, having stopped dead at the mention of 'boyfriend'. "My- my what? I don't have-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I was just letting you know." Harry replied impatiently.

"Why was he there?"

"He wanted to ask me a few questions about you. Have to go, John. See you later, okay?"

"Okay. Bye, Harry." John slipped his phone back into his pocket, starting off again, now a lot less light-hearted. _What could he have asked Harry about? Unless… __If you won't tell me, I'll find someone who will. _Oh fuck no. He didn't, he couldn't have. Harry would never- Oh shit. He'd probably worked it all out by now and was plotting exactly how he was going to use it to- No, he wasn't going to think about that, otherwise he'd have a panic attack. It was bad enough waking up with a handcuff around his wrist, he didn't need to imagine hours of endless torture and suffering.

"Are you all right, John?" A voice whispered in his ear.

John spun around, burying his fist into Sherlock's stomach. The Consulting Detective stumbled back, breath forced from his lungs. "Don't ever come near me again, you arrogant dickhead." John hissed.

"J- John, what-" Sherlock gasped, trying to straighten up.

"You know what you did! Now stay away from me or I'll call the police!" John threatened, marching away. Sherlock stared after him, completely shocked. Well, not completely shocked. He did consider the possibility of this happening, after all. He just didn't expect it to happen at that time. Or in front of a bunch of college students. He straightened up, readjusting his scarf, and strode after John, already editing his 'I-understand-how-you-feel-I-just-want-to-help-and-love-you-and-have-you-love-me-and-solve-crimes-together' speech.


	6. Think About It

**A/N: I'm sorry about this poor excuse for a chapter I just wanted to put _something_ up before I went away. So... here you go. And I'm sorry if the characters are OOC. I tried.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or its characters.**

_Chapter Six:_

John paced his kitchen, waiting for the phone call that could deliver him his dream, or crush it mercilessly. It had been over a week since the fight between himself and Sherlock. John's anger had faded quite quickly, but he was determined not to be the one to apologise. It was a point of pride. Sherlock seemed to have chosen a similar route to John, though there were moments where the latter would catch sight of a cloak disappearing round a corner or the lens of a camera flashing in the sunlight. Sometimes John would walk into his lounge room and know, without any physical proof, that Sherlock had been there. He wasn't sure what it was, nothing was ever missing or moved, but something gave away the detective's presence. The phone rang, cutting short John's thoughts and nearly startling him off his feet. He answered it with a breathless, "Hello, Jon Watson speaking."

"Mr Watson, this is Miss Danvers, from the enlistment office?"

"Oh, yes? How are you?" John replied, remembering Miss Danvers quite vividly.

"I'm fine, thank you. I'm just calling to inform you that you have passed your physical examination and you will be required to come in tomorrow morning at ten to fill in the final forms. Will this be acceptable?"

"Yes, yes, that would be perfect!" John said, barely containing his excitement. "I'll be there ten sharp, Miss Danvers. Thank you!"

"Good luck, Mr Watson." And with that, Miss Danvers hung up. John put down the phone, looking as though he might burst into song at any moment. As it was, he decided the news called for some tea and biscuits. Sticking his head in the pantry, he searched for his favourite tea (a very nice kind he had gotten for Christmas) and some chocolate biscuits he only ate on occasion.

"Good news, I take it?" A voice asked.

"Holy- Ouch!" John shouted, bolting upright and smacking his head on the pantry shelf. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, hello, John." Sherlock said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "So, good news?"

"How did you- Never mind, I don't care right now." John said quickly, pulling out the tea and biscuits and continuing with his celebration brunch. "Tea?"

"Yes, thank you. One sugar, no milk."

John hummed, pulling out two mugs. "And yes, it is good news. I passed my physical."

"Of course you did. You are a healthy, energetic, fit young man, after all."

"Are you flirting with me?" John asked, eyebrow raised.

"Not at all. I'm just complimenting you."

"You're practically purring, Sherlock. Stop it."

"I'm happy for you, John. Isn't that appropriate?"

"But you're not happy for me." John replied. "You hate the idea of me going to war."

"And when I expressed that opinion, you got angry with me." Sherlock said evenly. "So, now I am expressing positive emotions. Isn't that better?"

"Not when I know you're being insincere." John said, setting Sherlock's tea in front of him. "Now, why are you here?"

"I came to… apologise. It was rude of me to go behind your back and invade your privacy. I assure you, John, I wasn't being malicious. I simply wanted to know why you were rejecting me despite our mutual attraction." Sherlock murmured.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not-"

"John. Please. You're about to go to war… and it may sound sentimental, pathetic even, but… I'm going to miss you." Sherlock sighed, getting to his feet. "I've never wanted anyone like this. I've never wanted to hold someone, cuddle them at dawn, and kiss their forehead… It's a strange feeling. And right now, it hurts."

"Sherlock, I… I can't. I just- It's… I'm sorry, Sherlock, I am." John said quietly, moving back to the kitchen counter.

"You couldn't even try?"

"I- I can't, Sherlock."

There was silence, tense but fragile, that encompassed the entire room. Sherlock's perceptive eyes never strayed from John's face, while the latter did everything he could to avoid looking at the man. John shook slightly, though his face remained impassive, hands clenched. He focused on his breathing, eyes closed, and let himself relax. In, pause, out, pause. In, pause, out, pause. His mind so occupied with an automatic process, he didn't notice his personal space being invaded until the scent of cigarettes and chemicals and something sickly sweet overpowered him. Turning around slowly, he was met with a startlingly close Sherlock, and his eyes slammed shut in response.

"John, I swear to whichever god you believe in that I will never hurt you." Sherlock whispered, his breath tickling John's lips.

"What if I don't believe in any type of god?" John replied, his mind screaming at him to run and fight and kiss _Sherlock_.

"Then I swear on my life and my heart and my intelligence. I want you to be mine, John. I want someone, but not just anyone, so I don't feel so- so it won't hurt anymore."

"So what won't hurt anymore?"

"That part of me that craves a human touch. The part that, no matter how deep I bury it, crawls back to the surface." Sherlock said, leaning an inch closer. "It's the part of me that's fascinated by you, enraptured by you, totally and irrevocably captured by you. It won't let me focus, John, unless you're by my side. I need you."

"I'm sorry. I just can't… not now."

"You don't have to kiss me. We don't ever have to have sex or anything like that. You can date women and marry them if you want. All you have to do is stay with me."

"Sherlock, please, just let me think." John breathed. "Just step back a bit please."

"Will you think about it? Will you at least consider it?"

"I will just let me think."

"I- When you decide, call me. Or text me." Sherlock said, backing away. "Whichever one you're comfortable with."

After Sherlock left, John let out a shaky breath and moved to the table, his legs seemingly replaced with jelly. He rested his head in his hands, wondering what the appropriate response would be. Sherlock had sounded so desperate, so needy. He said he needed John. But feeling quickly flooded back into John's limbs, replacing the confusion and fear. There were things he needed to arrange. He could sort everything else out later. He could sort out his feelings for Sherlock later. If he had any, that is. He wasn't some quivering teenager; he could handle this. Getting to his feet, he poured the cold tea down the sink and pulled out his address book, fingers already flying over the dial pad. It was time to get to business.


	7. It's a Date

***Throws chapter at you and runs***

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK.**

**Chapter Seven:**

John sat back in the armchair, rubbing his temples. "What do you think I should do, Harry?"

"Well, he's your boyfriend, so-"

"He's not my boyfriend." John sighed. "We only met a couple weeks ago."

"Have you had sex?" Harry asked bluntly.

"Harry!"

"Well?"

"No, we haven't."

"Have you gone on a date?"

"Um… I- Not really. We've had brunch together. And we went out and, um, broke into a house together…"

"You what?" Harry quirked her eyebrows up in alarm. "You, John Watson, future army dog, broke into a house with a guy you've only known for a couple of weeks?"

"He invited me out to help him look for clues… for a case he's working on."

"Woah, Junior's a detective?"

"No, not- not really. It's more of a hobby."

"When did you exchange mobile numbers?" Harry queried suddenly.

"Um, a few minutes after we met."

"Bro, I think you may have a boyfriend."

"Shut up, Harry."

"No, seriously. You've eaten together, you got his number, he's been to your house, met your family. It really does sound like he's your boyfriend. And he likes you."

"And how would you know that?"

"He said it himself when he was around here. Said he wanted to help you and make you happy. It was kinda sweet." Harry smiled.

"It was?"

"Yeah." Harry leant forward, leaning on her knees. "Look, John, the most important thing in all of this is how _you_ feel. If you don't like him, if you think you will never, and I mean ever, like him, tell him and, if he's a good guy, he'll go away. But, if you do like him, if you have feelings for him that you're trying to hide, tell him and see where it leads. Your relationship doesn't have to revolve around sex, you know."

"He said as much." John admitted. "When did you become an expert in couple's therapy?"

"I dated a therapist, briefly. She was always talking about that sort of stuff." Harry answered. "So, are you going to go and confess your undying love, or are you gonna break the guy's heart?"

"I- I don't know. I mean, I think I like him, I'm just…"

"Not sure you want that kind of relationship with him?"

"Yeah. He told me that I could marry women if I want, as long as I stay with him. He sounded so desperate and lonely."

"John, don't do anything out of pity. You don't want to do something and then end up ball and chained for the rest of your life." Harry warned.

"I don't pity him. It's worse than that, actually. I _understand_ him. The loneliness, I mean. And he's… exciting. He breaks into houses and can tell you your life story in a glance and I know_ nothing_ about him. He's all cheekbones and mystery and he's interested in _me_. I'm just boring, ordinary John. It doesn't make any sense."

"Maybe he needs ordinary sometimes. Maybe he needs someone to ground him." Harry suggested.

"Maybe… I think I'll go for a walk, and think a bit more." John said, getting up.

"All right, John. If you need anything, just come round." Harry replied, waving him off.

**d(^_^)b**

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the scene before him, momentarily bewildered. "From your text, it sounded like an emergency."

"You weren't busy, were you?" John asked, beckoning to the man.

"No, not at all. I just wasn't expecting a picnic."

John looked up from the basket, eyebrow raised. "Do you dislike it?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking a seat on the chequered blanket. "It's nice. But why?"

"I was talking to Harry yesterday, and I realised I know almost nothing about you." John said, opening a bottle of wine and pouring it into a glass for Sherlock. "So, I want you to tell me more about yourself, then I can decide."

"About us?" Sherlock said quietly, accepting the glass.

"Yeah."

"So, first things first, what is your name?"

"You know my name."

"Mmm, but I want you to tell me again. I want us to start from the beginning." John replied, sipping his wine with a smile.

"Is this a date?"

"Maybe. Now, what is your name, mysterious and handsome stranger?"

"You think I'm handsome." Sherlock smiled. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. May I have your name? Or am I just going to have to keep calling you beautiful?"

John chuckled. "You can call me John."

"Well, John, what else would you like to know about me?"

"Hmm, where did you grow up?"

"In the country. My family has an estate there that I was holed up in for most of my life. Unless I was at boarding school."

"You attended boarding school?" John elected to ignore the 'holed up in for most of my life' comment.

"Several. I was expelled from all of them."

"You were a bad boy then?" John grinned.

"Not on purpose. I was just curious about chemistry. And that curiosity sometimes lead to explosions."

"You blew up your school?" John said with raised eyebrows.

"Not all of them. But yes, I accidentally blew up a couple laboratories." Sherlock admitted. "What about you, John."

"I just played football and a bit of cricket. Nothing worth mentioning."

"I think it is."

"Well, I lived in a little town outside of London. It was nice enough, but it wasn't very exciting. A lot of the kids there were… I don't know. They weren't outright mean. I suppose they were like every other kid our age. I did my best to just get through school and get out. What about you?"

Sherlock shrugged, setting down his half-full glass. "Seeing as I wasn't really settling in at my boarding school, my mother hired a personal tutor. He wasn't exactly radical or a genius, but he was interesting enough to hold my attention."

"Did you have a crush on him?"

"No. I've never really felt anything like that, for anyone. I suppose that's why everyone at school thought I was a weirdo."

"You never… you know? With anyone?"

"No."

"No girlfriends or boyfriends?"

"Does it really matter?" Sherlock asked.

"No. I just… I guess I'm just trying to figure out where I stand with you. Wondering whether there's anyone I have to compete with…" John trailed off, looking off into the distance.

"There's no one on this earth who could compete with you." Sherlock said quietly.

John smiled, looking down and fidgeting with the hem of his coat. "Um, would you like something to eat? I- I made sandwiches."

"Well, seeing as you made it… I guess one sandwich wouldn't hurt." Sherlock said. "John, does this mean you're actually thinking about… joining me?"

"I'm not sure. I'm still going to go on tour, do my bit and all of that. And I'm going to use that time to think about it. If I'm there, and all I can think about is you and solving mysteries together, then I'll come back to you and we can get a flat together and just go from there. But, if I get there and you fade to the back of my mind, then I guess it's not meant to be."

"That seems reasonable."

"Are you okay with that?"

"Of course. Take as much time as you need, John."

"You'll wait for me?"

"I'd wait a thousand years for you."

John blushed, trying to hide his face in his hands. "For someone who says he's never dated anyone before, you're certainly romantic."

Sherlock grinned, tugging on John's hands. "I just really enjoy your face when it's such a fantastic shade of red. It's cute."

"I'm not cute." John grumbled, slowly allowing himself into a hug. Sherlock secured his arms around John's waist, even though it was slightly awkward and clumsy. The two stayed like that for a little longer, breaking apart when John's stomach rumbled. And when John left a few short weeks later, Sherlock would return to that little picnic whenever he felt lonely, reliving every word, every touch and every sight until he knew the whole thing off by heart. It would be years before they saw each other again, and when they did, neither would be in the same condition as when they parted.


	8. Remember Me

**A/N: This is the final chapter. I hope you've all enjoyed the story, and I like to take this moment to thank you all for reading and reviewing. I'd also like to point out that there is a French version available by CruelleIronie. Anyway, thank you all so much for the feedback (again), it means so much to me. I hope you enjoy this final chapter! **

**P.S. I'd also like to add that I am not a medical professional.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!**

**Chapter Eight:**

John looked about the hospital with a grimace, remembering the dusty tent he had operated out of only a few months ago. With the memories came an ache in his shoulder, and then his leg, as the thought of how close he came to losing everything rose in his mind. He pushed himself forwards, towards the reception desk, and forced the memories away.

"Um, excuse me?" He said quietly.

The woman glanced up at him, and then to the cane he practically clung to, and smiled politely. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Er, no. I'm here to visit someone. His name is Sherlock Holmes?"

"One moment please." She replied, typing quickly on her computer. "Are you family?"

"No, I'm… a friend. A close friend."

The woman nodded, pulling out a small card to write the room number on. "Room 442. Y'know," she added, leaning closer, "he's been here nearly a month. And you're the third person to visit him. In all that time!"

John allowed himself a small smile. "He's not much of a people person." He said fondly.

"I heard he was really smart."

"He's a genius." John replied, heading for the lift.

When he reached the room, John wasn't sure what to expect. It wasn't this. Dark curls, unkempt and unwashed, sprawled messily onto the pillow or onto his face, clinging to greasy, pale, sickly skin. He was thinner than the last time John had seen him, verging on gaunt. Various tubes snaked away from his arms and nose to machines John had only dealt with in his years at Medical School. He couldn't help the gasp that passed his lips as the sight before him jarred violently with his memories. He hesitantly stepped into the room and made his way to Sherlock's side, his hand hovering just above his cheek. "Sherlock?"

The man remained silent and unmoving. John felt a lump well up in his throat, sucking in a deep breath and reminding himself that it could be worse. Limping back to the end of the bed, he glanced over the charts. If he could have banged his head against the wall, he would. Considering that was probably inappropriate for a hospital environment, he instead sank into the vacant chair and fixed the unconscious man with a tired stare. "What have you done, Sherlock? What have you done?" He asked quietly.

"Got hit by a car for starters." A professional and stern voice told him.

Looking up, John frowned at the woman standing in the doorway. He debated getting up, but his leg quickly reminded him why this was a very bad idea. "Er, hello. Who are you?"

The woman pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. "I feel like an Emily today. And may I ask, who are you?"

"I'm John. I'm a friend of Sherlock's."

"I was told he didn't have friends."

"He has me."

"Does he? Then where have you been all this time?" Emily asked severely.

John gritted his teeth. "In Afghanistan. Getting shot at."

"You couldn't have picked up a phone? Written a letter?"

"We had to maintain radio silence." John replied, glaring at the woman. "And who the fuck are you, exactly? Why am I explaining myself to you?"

"I'm an interested party in Mr Holmes' affairs." Emily retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"What happened to him? How long has he been like this?"

"Why should I tell you?"

John was on his feet instantly, hands balled into fists. "Because when I left he wasn't in a hospital bed. When I left, he was telling me about the flat we were going to have and the crimes we were going to solve. When I left, I had something to come back to. Now I want to know what's fucked up and how I can fix it, so if you don't mind, I'd appreciate a little cooperation."

Emily raised an eyebrow at him, before shrugging and stepping into the room. "I only know as much as his doctors do. He was running through traffic and he just stepped out in front of a taxi. He somehow survived without too much damage, but there's been… complications."

"What complications? How- How did he not see a taxi coming at him?" John demanded.

"He was high. According to the tests, he had enough cocaine in his system to take out an African bull elephant. They figure he was hallucinating."

"Cocaine? Why would he- No. This man- Sherlock- He- He just wouldn't. He couldn't. No. W- Why? Why would he…?" John stammered, looking between his friend and Emily.

"Why does anyone get high? My guess is he was lonely. Or frustrated. Or looking for a thrill. Either way, he's lucky to be alive."

"You mentioned complications?"

"He's been here three weeks. In that time, he's been in and out of consciousness. But from what the medical staff can gather from his few coherent statements, he thinks he twenty-one and that he has a paper due in a week."

"Amnesia?"

Emily nodded. "They aren't sure if he'll get it all back."

At that moment, John could swear he felt his heart shatter. He wouldn't allow himself to cry, not yet, not in front of this stranger. He couldn't show how much the idea stabbed at him. Because if Sherlock didn't remember, then John's entire future would fade away to nothingness. His four years in a desert dodging bullets and burrowing into the earth like a wombat, thinking only of London and a tall man in a dark coat waiting for him, would never let him be, would never let him forget how it was all for nothing.

I should have been here. I should never have left. He NEEDED me and I wasn't here. And now he's forgotten me.

"What are the chances he'll… never remember me?" He asked quietly.

"When did you first meet?"

"He was twenty-three." John answered, smiling as the memory came into focus.

"Well, the bad news is that you fall inside the does not remember radius. The good news is that if he does start remembering things, being an older memory, he's likely to remember you sooner rather than later."

"I- I suppose that's a good thing." John said, gritting his teeth as his leg reminded him that jumping to his feet in a fit of rage was no longer a plausible option. Taking a deep breath, he pulled a small notepad out of his pocket and scribbled down a number, handing it to the girl. "If- If he remembers me… If he starts asking where John is… would you have him call me? My old number was in his phone but it's changed and, um, I just want him to have it. Could you do that for me?"

"I'll make sure that he gets it." She replied, tucking it into a purse.

"Thank you." John nodded and plodded over to Sherlock's side. For a moment he stared down at his sleeping friend, thinking about how, despite the state he was in, he still held his unnatural beauty. In a split second he had bent down and planted a tender kiss on his forehead. "Don't forget me forever, okay?" He added in a whisper. Straightening up, he nodded to the woman and left.

After a minute, the woman pulled out her phone and began dialling. It rang twice before being answered. "Sir? Yes, I believe he's the one. Yes. I'll set out about a meeting as soon as he wakes up. And of course, sir, I will be subtle."

"Good." The man on the other end crooned. "I would hate for my dear brother to be alone for the rest of his life. Well done, Mary."


End file.
